


Yours Always

by starryclimes (veritasapientia)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sexual Content, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritasapientia/pseuds/starryclimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is WWI and Matthieu Bonnefoy thinks there is no purpose in life until Matthew comes into his life and into the trenches. All Matthew Williams wants is Leave and Matt. And both want to survive the War. For 2013 RVP secret Santa exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours Always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bear-in-a-human-suit](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Bear-in-a-human-suit).



> Happy New Year! I’m sorry this is so late! I hope you enjoy it. I chose the prompt: historical fic. I’m sorry I’m American and didn’t know anything about the colonization of Canada or the Plains of Abraham. Then I envisioned Matthew leaning against the side of a trench and looking at the blue sky and it became a WWI fic.  
> To: Bear-in-a-human-suit  
> 4972 words  
> Rating:M, for sexual situations, attempts at smut, angst, wartime conditions

Always Yours

 

—————-   
~France, 1916~   
“How long do you think we will be here?” Matthew mused, leaning against the side of the trench, his weariness overtaking his commonsense.

Matt, his newest found friend in this madness that was Europe, just looked through tired deep-set eyes down at the fair blond whose hair wisped around the edges of his helmet. “Do you mean this trench? Or the war?” It was a long sentence even for him. His heart hurt just thinking of the implications. How long did he have with Matthew? At first he hadn’t cared if he lived or died, his farm back home meant nothing with his mean, drunk father still living. Then as the continuous over the edge calls came, and as men died all about him, and as he had heard both sides singing the same carols over Christmas, life seemed a bit more important.

Then they had sent more troops.

The boy, for yes, that he was, was beautiful.

Standing there in an unsoiled uniform, his newly shortened hair wisping about his head as one would think of a cherub in those fancy art museums, and his eyes. Matt had been lost at one look at those eyes. Purple, huge, behind wired round glasses, peering about. How young of soldiers were they accepting? Matt thought with a pang. It was as if something had seized his heart and wouldn’t let go.

Braving the terror that suddenly seized him, he had walked over to the boy, and introduced himself. The boy had smiled, confirming his heartache, and had followed Matt wherever he went. Matt taught him how to survive, how to try to avoid boot rot, how to use his gun when going over the edge, and took him rat hunting when they came out after the shellings. There was no angel left in Matthew by the month end. Matt had watched him bayonet and kill, an avenging angel. The wrath that came out in Matthew was endearing to the others. Their men already had a reputation of striking fear into the Germans.

Matthew just looked up into the blue sky. He sighed, deeply, “I don’t know, to tell the truth. Maybe we’ll get Leave soon?” The boy looked hopeful, his youthful face stretching into a sheepish smile at Matt.

Matt just grunted. Had to make it through this war, he thought desperately. Had to make sure Matthew got out of this war alive, his heart beat hopefully. Get out of here alive. Together, hopefully. Or if it came to the worst, Matthew before Matt. He just gave his best smile at the boy. Matthew just stared, (you never smile, he explained later), and flushed deeply.    
—————————————————  
- ~Paris, 1917~

“Never thought I’d get to see Paris.”

Matthew was excitedly hanging out of the edge of the truck. The reprieve of leave was granted just yesterday, and Matt had watched his little chickadee become animated and delighted.

“Wooo!” Matthew had yelled in delight at the streets, the people, and the other men on leave making sure to enjoy the most out of their few weeks of freedom.

In the pub, after his first shot of whiskey, Matthew had lost his shyness and had chatted up other soldiers, leaving matt with the sudden pangs of jealousy.

“Hey, Matt, this is Alfred.” Matt stared at the boisterous American, who had already been threatened to be kicked out of the pub they were in. “He flies aeroplanes. Pretty nifty.”

Stars seemed to have crossed Matthew’s eyes as he listened with rapt attention as the blond haired blue eyed boy, who looked so similar he could have been Matthew’s brother, told stories of his dogfights and close calls.

“Gotta live for the now,” Alfred had said, winking at the two of them, “We are all dead men. Me especially.” He was living out what he said, and in the end, he and another American got in a fight over a girl. The other boy, from the Bronx, Alfred confided with a busted lip, had the strangest colored eyes Matt had ever seen.

Matt walked Matthew down the street. The young boy had gotten tipsy on the first shots of whiskey and beer they had been drinking. Was it his imagination or was Matthew clinging to him even more than usual? “You are swell, Matt. Should we look for some girls?” Hard to say anything as Matthew’s hand slid over his backside, and the boy giving him looks askance, sly smile on his face.

Matt grunted. Girls? He knew what he wanted. Such appetites though, he looked over at Matthew’s sweet arse, and slender thighs sheathed in his uniform, such appetites were deemed abnormal. His father’s new wife had made sure he never wanted a woman. His Adam apple bobbed with the tightness of sadness. Matthew seemed to understand Matt’s changing moods. He stopped and grabbed both sides of Matt’s face. With a drunken lurch he breathed malt onto Matt’s face, “What’s wrong, Matt? We were having a gay time…go find some of those French girls?”

“Don’t want a French girl.” Matt muttered, ignoring the hands he wanted to press kisses to. Their heat burned into his never ending stubble.

Matthew frowned, and then his lips smirked. “What do you want?”

Matt just stared into those purple wide eyes. “Can’t tell you,” he muttered and thrust away Matthew’s hands, and continued walking, slumping over.

Matthew was laughing, almost helplessly, his laughter echoing over the brick walls, making Matt turn to see the drunken boy leaning over with weight of the gaiety. “Come on.” He singsonged to Matt holding out his hand. “Come on…” Matt could feel the concern showing on his face. Leery, he took Matthew’s proffered hand. There was an inn at the corner, he saw, Matthew leading them straight there.

“B’jour,” Matt said gruffly to the hostess. He hated using his Quebecois. “Any rooms?” he asked roughly. “My friend here had too much to drink.”

He gestured to Matthew, who true to form was leaning against a table petting its oak grain.

“Matt, look, the table’s moving.”

The Parisienne took one look at Matthew, and said, “Maybe.”

Matt handed over the rest of his leave money, and she led him to a room.

“You were wonderful.” Matthew breathed at last as he heard her leaving. “This is perfect.”

Perfect for what, chickadee? Matt asked in his head.

Matthew started taking off his clothes. “I want a bath.”

Matt just gulped at the smooth skin being shown. The tan line on the edge of the neck evident. A tub was at the edge of the room and Matt went to get the water. The landlady had gone to bed. He pulled bucket after bucket of warm water from the top of the kitchen stove.

“Here,” Matt called to the boy who had found a changing screen to play with. Matthew coyly peered around the screen.

“Are you going to join me? Might as well not waste that water.”

Matt gulped. “Don’t know.”

“Come on.” There was a tipsy slur in the words.

“Alright.” Matt caved. How could he not?

Matthew came out nude, and Matt could feel the blush rising up his neck. Perfect. Even with the scars, the lack of proper food.

He clumsily started to strip.

“Mmmm,” Matthew said almost indecently as he stepped into the warm tub.

Matt fumbled with his trousers at the sound.

“Ahhh.” He lowered himself in. “Come on, Matt,” he laid his head, curls tumbling, against the edge of the tub. His eyes, wanton, watching Matt trying to take of his clothes without embarrassing himself.

Ignoring those large purple eyes, which laughed, as Matthew said, “My glasses are off, Matt.”

He stepped in. Trying to ignore the huge body he had never become comfortable with, his large cock, which his stepmother had always been trying to seduce him for, hopefully not showing its interest, and trying to find a place for his hairy legs that brushed along smooth soft skin of Matthew’s legs.

Lowering himself in, arm muscles rippling as he tried not to disturb the water, blushing he looked up to see Matthew’s eyes lowered, purple now deep royal in the flickering gaslight.

Surprised, he noted Matthew’s chest rising and falling.

“Matt.” The voice that came out of his angel’s mouth was deep, needy, aching. He was paralyzed.

Slowly, the water swirling about them, Matthew scooted over Matt’s knees and came to rest in his lap. Matthew braced his hands on Matt’s muscular shoulders, looking at the scars from battle, the toned abs, and his treasure trail reaching up to the dark blond hair that lined his chest. “Matt, don’t hate me.” The boy bit his lip, a slight terror coming into those dilated eyes.

“How?” Matt croaked out finally. “How could I hate you?”

Matthew’s hands rested on the toned pectorals, and his head bowed as he leaned closer to Matt. An angel, Matt thought frantically, willing his dick down, an angel has landed on me.

“Alfred said we should live life like we are going to die. And you never know, any day…” The thought wasn’t finished. “All I want is you. Do you want me?” The eyes raised to look at Matt’s own, widened from their usual drowsy look.

“Chickadee.” He had said it a thousand times in his head, but never out loud.

“Chickadee?” Matthew questioned, tilting his head, just like the namesake he was given. The water pooled about them, a miniature ocean, each fragile movement creating an ebb and flow.

“Matthew,” he raised his hand and allowed it to run through that curly hair. Matthew moved his head against the rough palm, the water dousing the flightiness of the curls. “Matthew, you want this?”

“Yes.” The boy said shyly. “I don’t know. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. Ever since I saw you. I…” His cheeks were rosy and warm when Matt sat up to kiss them. “I’m your chickadee?”

“Yes,” Matt said gruffly, kissing each of Matthew’s closed eyelids, “You are mine.”

~~~~

“Matt! Matt! Matt!” Matthew’s voice carried as he yelled, his voice cracking on the last yell, showing his age. He was sobbing, but he didn’t want it to stop. Matt was deep in him, he was stretched to the maximum, and each slide and thrust caused pain, but incredible pleasure.

Matt grunted, watching the young boy writhe under him, Matthew’s feet flexing and curling as they wrapped farther around Matt. He could see that Matthew was enjoying it, but he wanted him to enjoy this even more.

With a gigantic splash, he picked up the boy still attached to him and staggered to the bed. Pulling Matthew’s legs down, he placed the boy on the bed facedown. Grabbing the boy’s hips, he angled differently and was rewarded with a scream as he hit the boy’s prostate.

“Yes.” Matthew sobbed. “Oh, God, yes!”

The end came quickly, the bed shaking with Matt’s vigorous pounding, and his rough hands pulled and twisted Matthew into the oblivion of orgasm.

~~~~

“Okay?” Matt asked Matthew, his paws combing through those angelic curls now perfected with sweat.

Matthew nodded into Matt’s chest. The small puffs of breath made Matt close his eyes apologetically. “Should have been gentler with you.”

“No.” It was emphatic. “Never. I’m going to remember this for all time.”

“But…” Matthew raised himself up with a wince and placed a finger to Matt’s lips. “No. In a week we are going back to that hell. This was my heaven for one night.”

Matt grimaced. “Going to be more nights.” The hopefulness in his voice surprised himself.

“Yes, yes.” Matthew smiled reassuringly. Matt’s heart squeezed. He knew it wasn’t going to come true. If they made it back, there was no future for the both of them. Not being unnatural—how would they hide it?

He fell asleep with his hand curving around Matthew’s arse and his dreams were of the Minnie’s falling, falling, and screaming. When he awoke he found Matthew sitting by the window drinking coffee. His angel smiled at him.

Fond, sweet, and a new light was in his eyes.  The kiss on his lips was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.  
——————————————————————  
~France, 1917~

They had carried him off the field. He wasn’t supposed to survive. Some British chap had cleaned him up and stitched up his gaping wounds, but there wasn’t much hope. His chickadee had gone missing. When he had come back to the field, the mashed up, body strewed earth, Matthew Williams had disappeared. His whole unit was gone. He felt more alone than when he was a child hiding in the woods while his old man sobered up.

His chickadee was gone. It was not fair. He had always known that about life. It wasn’t fair. For once, though, it would have been nice for it to have proved him wrong. It was like he didn’t care anymore. Now he knew what people meant when they were heartbroken.  
____________________________________  
~France, 1918~

“Matt?” The voice that called to him was far away. The train was leaving, and it was too full of men that he couldn’t fit on it. Desperate men had even crawled on top of the train cars to get home. He gave up; his leg had never worked the same way as it had before, so he had given up.

  
“Matt?” There were thousands of Matts in the world. Surely, this person didn’t mean him. “Matthieu?” The voice was more demanding. It was a rich baritone voice. A nice voice, but he couldn’t see through the other left-behind men to find who was calling. “I heard you! I swear!” The voice was desperate. “God! Matt!”

  
He heard a woman’s voice shushing.

  
Working through the men laying about at the station, he saw a bunch of poor souls, all with their eyes bound and some with their eyes free of bandage but unseeing, the white film over the color telling their story.

  
The voice was now coughing, and the nurse was still shushing. He saw the man sitting in a wheelchair, a bandage covering his eyes like the other. His golden hair though, had wound its way free about the bandage and was curling in the morning light. The man was taller, and his voice deeper, and Matt’s legs felt like they were going to collapse.

  
“Matthew,” he gruffly said.

  
The man turned his head towards him, a beautiful smile gracing his lips, “Matt!”

  
He laughed and sobbed, emotions never coming to light like this, but his heart was too full to contain them. He bent over to hug the man in the chair. “Chickadee?” He questioned with a whisper by the man’s ear.

  
“Yes. I am your chickadee.”

 

Matt didn’t know how to deal with the tears running down his face, “Chickadee, we’re finally going home. Let’s leave here together.”

  
Matthew rested his face against the stubble of Matt’s chin. “Okay.”

 ____________________________________  
~Canada, 1918~

  
Matt had found a farm. It was far away from his old homestead. Far enough that he hoped his father thought he had died, and couldn’t write for money. Far enough from Matthew’s family too; there had been a strange shield that had slid over Matthew’s face when Matt asked if he wanted to be close to his family.

  
Matthew couldn’t see. Matt tried his best to be his eyes. Sometimes though, he felt like Matthew resented it. So he stopped trying to be there for every little thing. Matthew had wept in the train ride home when Matt told him what he really thought. “Don’t want you angry at me, chickadee.”

  
Matthew was 18, and Matt 24. They looked alike well enough for the village to think they were brothers. Brothers with the same name? Well, they explained, one was French, one was English. It made more whispers for awhile, and then no one cared.

  
Matt tried to describe it, a home ordered out of a catalog, the old fashioned kind, shaped like a box, and with the curly cues that Victorians loved. He had a feeling Matthew would think it ugly if he could see, but Matthew examined every nuance about the house. He was in love with it too.

  
Sometimes there were nightmares. They came with the cold that seeped through the windows, frost biting the panes, wolves faintly howling in the distance. Panic-stricken, Matthew sitting up in bed screaming that it was dark, dark, and let him out! Matt could only soothe him by hugging him and explaining what happened. Matthew would only gnash his teeth and weep.

  
Then one night, quietly, Matthew told him about the poison gas that seeped and crept up the trenches, the kind that could leak through gas masks, and why hadn’t he died? He had watched their company’s men convulse and die, and himself his lungs were burning and his eyes went out. Matt told him that he loved him over and over again.

  
Another night, Matthew had told him about his family. They played pranks on him, forgot about him. He was the leftover cousin whose parents had died young. His cousins would lock him in the closet, leaving him shivering, alone with his stuffed bear, and not tell his aunt and uncle. They didn’t care either, neither did the nanny. Her charges were the ones who had money. One time it took two days for them to find him. And then he was yelled at for hiding in closets. He hated the dark, he confessed.

  
“I’m in your closet too, chickadee.” Matt said, and Matthew had suddenly smiled as if a grand mystery had been solved.

  
Sometimes Matt’s nightmares were vivid. He remembered the gunsmoke and hidden guns in the woods, and the Minnies, and the rats. He couldn’t get away. He awoke with Matthew stroking his hair, rubbing his back until his shivers went away. “We’re in Canada, love.” Matthew would say over and over reassuringly.

  
Matt raised crops, and Matthew cooked and cleaned. They celebrated by buying dairy cows, and new clothes for Matthew, since he was still growing. Matt growled in approval as Matthew stood helplessly on the stand while trying on new clothing, sewn by the seamstress in town. Red plaid, and new trousers. The girls giggled at how handsome he was, and Matt worried. “The women think you’re handsome,” he said as they rode out of town on their wagon.

  
“Do you think I’m handsome?”

  
“Too handsome for your own good,” Matt growled jealously.

  
Matthew just slyly smiled. “I’ll take your word for it. And if you want, I’d love for you to prove it to me.”

  
That night Matt did just that, making Matthew moan his name.

  
“I’m sewing which color each one is.” Matthew explained as he stitched symbols on his new clothes. “This is red, right?”

  
Matt leaned over and starting taking off his boots. “Yes.”

  
“This one is blue?”

 

“Yes.”

  
“I wish we could get married.”

  
It had come out of nowhere, and Matt felt like he had been hit with a large log, winded, he croaked out, “Chickadee?”

  
Matthew just sighed. “Then those girls know that I have the handsomest man in town as my groom. They wouldn’t touch you then.”

  
“What?” Matt felt even more winded.

 

Matthew looked sad. “I know how handsome you are.”

  
Matt just looked at his too large hands, pulling apart his shoelaces. “If you say so, Chickadee.” He watched his lover, lean over his work more, some times pricking his fingers.“Marry me,” he said softly.

 

Matthew sat up quickly. “What?”

 

Matt swallowed, “Marry me, and be my groom.”

  
Matthew just laughed, but in a way that was filled with joy. “Yes!” He exclaimed reaching his arms toward Matt’s voice.

  
Matt clomped over, one boot off, and one on, and embraced him back. “I love you, chickadee.”

  
“I love you too.”  
____________________________________  
~Canada, 1921~

  
“What color is the sky today?” Matthew stood there, his hand resting on the rope that lay from the house to the barn, his unseeing eyes looking upward, head cocked waiting for Matt’s response.

  
Matt looked up at him from where he was working. “Blue.” He tried harder, “Like the color of the lakes out West and then it lightens as it touches the horizon.”  
Matthew smiled at him. “I’m twenty-one today.”

  
“So you are, chickadee.”

  
“I expected a present.”

  
Matt swallowed. They had so little money, so he had worked on a project for a long time. Would it be good enough?

  
“But that is selfish of me. I have you.”

  
Matt felt his heart squeeze. Matthew’s blindness had let them live together. And they were known as the men from the Great War that never healed. Brothers that lived together, the older brother kindly giving up his dreams of marriage and family for the younger wounded one. He knew the whispers that went around the village nearby.

  
The sound of a motor car was in the distance. Matt stood up warily. “We expecting company?”

  
Matthew smiled at him again mysteriously, “I am.” He started walking back to the house.

  
Matt tried to not let jealously consume him. He wanted it to just be them, but that was selfish in itself. He stomped off to go work more in the fields trying to ignore the pit in his stomach, and stop thinking of the item lying in his writing desk upstairs.

  
Matthew had the tea ready by the time his visitor came. Matt had never chided him for still wanting to cook and clean, even with his blindness. Never scolded him for falling from exploring, or trying to get around on his own. Instead, he was there to bind up any scrapes, burns, and bumps that Matthew incurred. Kissing each one sweetly. Matthew held those kisses close to his heart.

  
“Hello?” A very English voice called in through the screen door. Matthew went over to answer it.

  
“Hello,” he said. “You must be Arthur Kirkland.”

  
The surprise at Matthew’s blindness was even evident through the man’s voice. “Yes, and you must be Matthew Williams.”

  
“Please come in, I made some tea.”

  
Setting down the tray, and ignoring the man’s advances to help, Matthew finally sat down. “May I?” he asked quietly holding his hand towards the man’s face, and the man stilled, knowing what he wanted. Matthew slowly ran his fingers over the visitor’s face. “What color are your eyes?” he asked.

 

“Green. Sometimes murky, sometimes like the forest.”

  
“Are you a poet also like my friend Matt?”

  
Arthur laughed, “My boy, I try.”

  
“I asked you here, to thank you.”

 

“Thank me?”

  
“For saving Matt’s life, doctor. I’m pretty sure it was because of you.”

  
“Hmm,” Arthur said gruffly, “I’m pretty sure he pulled through because of you. A lot of the men I worked on never made it.” There was a touch of horror in the last sentence. No one wanted to talk of the war, of the influenza, but here it seemed safe, just the two veterans talking to each other, no other civilian within miles.  
“He is special to me.”

  
“I gathered. The town’s villagers think you two are brothers.”

  
“Brothers in arms?” Matthew cheekily said.

  
“Hum.” Arthur replied, “I am glad you think so highly of me.”

  
Matthew smiled, “It’s my birthday, I wanted to thank you for saving my birthday present.”

  
——  
The sun was setting as Matt drove the cows in. He saw the lights come on in the house. The silhouette of another man beside Matthew stepped out onto the porch. He gritted his teeth.

  
As he finally walked in, he saw who it was. “Doc?” he asked, shocked.

  
“Matt, my boy,” said the British Army Medic, “it is good to see you alive and walking.”

  
“What are you doing here, doc?” Matt was flabbergasted.

  
“Your young friend wanted to meet me. I am overseas for a conference, and thought I would come and see you and him.”

  
“Thanks.” Matt was tongue tied.

  
“No problem at all. I enjoyed my time here. You take good care of him.”

  
“I will.” I do. Matt thought.   —— Matt came in and sat down to a feast. “It’s your birthday, chickadee,” he said, as vegetables, meat, potatoes, corn bread, and gravy were lying on the table.

  
“Yes, it is. That’s why there’s cake afterward.”

  
Tucking in, starving from working all day, Matt could only make grunts of appreciation as he listened to Matthew talk about the day.

  
A large slice of cake lay before him, and to his surprise Matthew sat right next to him, “Open your mouth.”

  
Matt grinned, “Ok, chickadee.” And watched as the love of his life found the cake and brought the fork up. He gently cupped his hand behind Matthew’s and together they found his mouth. “Mmm,” he said as Matthew’s mouth opened at the same time; it was filled with wantonness. He tried not to think about that sweet mouth around his cock as he licked the frosting from his lips.

  
“Here you go.” He mirrored the move, and Matthew cupped his hand. The white cake met Matthew’s mouth, and his pink tongue came out to flick against the fork.

“Mmm…” It was a sensual moan. Matt stared as Matthew licked his lips.

  
Alternating turns the two of them finished off both slices of cake.

  
Matt then watched Matthew wink at him as they cleaned off the table, making sure the food was put away for the next day. “Waste not, want not,” he murmured, trying to ignore how hard he was in his pants.

  
Coming upstairs he saw Matthew sitting on their bed, the quilt they had been given by the ladies at the county fair, a riot of color, a perfect backdrop to Matthew’s wanton pose. “Matt, I want a bath.”

  
Matt swallowed.  
——  
Matthew rose and fell on top of Matt, the water swaying about their hasty movements. Matt’s hand running up and down his lover’s sides, tweaking his nipples, and leaning forward to kiss his white neck.

  
“Ahh.” Matthew cried as he hit that sweet spot, and Matt rose each time making sure he continued to hit it. “Oh, Matt,” came slowly out of Matthew’s mouth. “Ahh!”  
Matthew squeezed Matt as he lost control as he came, and then Matt grabbed Matthew’s cock and got him off by hand just the way he liked it.

  
“Happy birthday, chickadee,” he murmured into the side of Matthew’s neck. His chickadee had gotten such broad shoulders, and grown taller, and even his cock had gotten bigger, thicker. So beautiful to Matt. He made sure that Matthew was never ashamed of his body.

  
Matthew just kissed his side. “I love you. I loved you that first day I met you. I love how you loved me. I loved your handsome body, and your sweet smile, and I wanted you to have my virginity, and I love how you still love me even though I can’t see, and I love that you let me live life, and I love the little things like the ropes between buildings, and I love that you love my food, and that you love me.” There were tears at the end.

  
“Chickadee, chickadee,” Matt had murmured over and over as his chickadee had told him everything. “I love you.”

  
He let Matthew find his mouth, those fingers, scarred and beautiful because of it, run over his lips, and then, breathes intertwining, lips meeting lips, and deepening through the salty tears that lingered, tongue meeting tongue.

  
They lay in bed after Matt cleaned Matthew, and Matthew allowed him to dress him, hands lingering all over his body. Matthew was drowsy, and Matt suddenly sprang out of bed over to the writing desk. A drawer opened and shut.

  
Matthew could feel Matt’s agitation. “Here, Chickadee.” Something was thrust into his hands.

  
Matthew wanted to cry. “I was just joking, Matt. I don’t need a present.”

  
“Shut up and just open it,” came gruffly from the large, warm figure next him.

  
Matthew nodded, and figured out where the ribbon was tied. He couldn’t loose the knot, but he just smiled and continued on.

  
Matt swore and once again jumped out of bed. “Hold still chickadee,” he said, and Matthew heard the ribbon cut.

  
“Thanks.” Matthew just smiled in the direction he thought Matt was.

  
His lover’s warm figure snuggled up to him again.

  
He opened the box, and his hand ran over a cloth cover.

 

“A journal?” He guessed, smiling, he still loved to write and draw.

  
An emphatic shaking of the head was next to him. “I should have…”

  
“No, no.” Matthew continued on, opening the book. It was a cruel gift if Matt had given a gift of a book, but maybe he wanted to read it to Matthew. Matt wasn’t the cruel type. Then his fingers ran over the bumps that permeated over the sheet of paper.

  
Tears threatened.

  
“I made it myself. So it probably is not right.” Matt sounded terrified.

  
“No. No. No.” Matthew couldn’t help himself, as his fingers ran over the pages. Shakespeare. “It’s beautiful.” Tears were running now.

  
“Don’t cry!” Matt panicked, reaching over to kiss the tears.

  
“It’s so beautiful,” Matthew said, trying to angle his head to kiss those lips. “So beautiful, like you.”

  
“Not beautiful, chickadee.”

  
Matthew laughed a wet laugh. “You made this yourself. You punched the Braille  yourself.”

  
Matt shrugged.

  
“It’s my twenty-first birthday.”

  
“So it is, chickadee.”

  
“I love you.”

  
Matt couldn’t say anything in return, because those fingers that had been reading a moment before were entwined in his hair, and his mouth was occupied by another mouth. I’m glad you like it. He thought as the haze of lust pulled him in and his heart hurt from the love that filled it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Yours Always [Podfic] by Starryclimes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238394) by [00qverlord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/00qverlord/pseuds/00qverlord)




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